


A Direct Approach

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Quid Pro Quo [4]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Fuckbuddies, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Pet Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 22:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18170444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Wade pays Frank a visit.





	A Direct Approach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kokopellifacetattoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kokopellifacetattoo/gifts).



It’s not all that surprising when, barely a week after getting back from his impromptu vacation, Frank comes home to find his apartment door once again jimmied open and Wilson lounging on his couch, playing some game on his phone. Wilson had a peculiar neediness to him, and he seemed to naturally opt for being obnoxious rather than follow any kind of established social norm in his attempts to get attention.  

“I brought coffee,” Wilson says by way of greeting, pointing toward the little bag on the table by the couch. “How do you feel about bondage?”

There are several ways to play this, Frank thinks, sliding the deadbolts in place on the door. Wilson, when he turns back into the room, is still focused on his phone, evidently disinterested, but Frank intuits that it’s a put on. Intuiting Wilson’s moods took a little practice, but once you picked up on his tells he was an easy read.

By this point it’s ridiculous to think Wilson doesn’t know what went on in Cable’s safe house. Cable would have told him, in detail, Frank imagined. Now Wade wanted to see where things had settled in that arena for him.

He wasn’t exactly subtle, and while Frank could be annoyed, he didn’t see much point in getting his blood pressure up over Wilson following his nature.

So, Frank hums a vague noise, picking up the bag of beans and reading the label. Finally he says, “Never was a Boy Scout, but I can tie a few knots.”

Wilson grins, setting his phone on the arm of the couch. “I was thinking less rope and more handcuffs.”

“You want me to cuff you?” Frank keeps his tone mild because Wilson has a tendency to respond to any sign of reticence as a rejection. Truth is, the idea of tying anybody up during sex doesn’t really interest Frank; he likes being touched, and it’s hard for someone to do that if their hands are bound.

He does not, however, see any point in bothering with the pretense of being completely disinterested.

“I wanna cuff _you,_ ” Wilson says, sitting up, right on the edge of his seat now. “Cuff your hands behind you, push you down on the couch, and ride you till you cry.”

There’s nothing particularly sexy about the way Wilson talks, all bald desire and thoughtless fantasy. Certainly he doesn’t look like he set out to seduce, clad in a pair of tired looking sweatpants and a ratty grey tee-shirt with the Full House logo emblazoned across the front in orange.

And yet, there’s also something, almost in spite of Wilson’s (almost certainly intentional) lack of sex appeal, in the idea he presents, that Frank finds he could really be into.

“I can show you how Nate likes it,” Wilson says, and Frank will never, not in a million years, admit to the way _that_ goes straight to his dick. “Or we can figure out how you like it.”

“Yeah, okay,” Frank says, taking the coffee beans into the kitchen and putting them away, like he’s not half hard just from thinking about Wilson bouncing in Cable’s lap. When he turns around Wilson is in his space, close enough Frank can see how his pupils are blown, the sheen of spit on his thin lips left after he licks them. It takes a bit more self control than Frank likes to resist the impulse to shove him out of his space. “What the fuck, Wilson?”

Wilson walks his fingers over Frank’s shoulder as he circles him, and it’s only when he’s standing behind him, a little closer than really necessary, that Frank hears the jingle of the handcuffs. “You need to put your hands behind your back.”

“No, I need to shower and change my clothes.”

He expects disappointment, maybe whining. Wilson can be obnoxious, but he has a tendency to pout and try to ingratiate himself to get his way. So he’s really not expecting it when strong hands -- he forgets, given how wiry the mercenary is, just how strong he actually is -- grab him by the wrists and yank his arms against the small of his back.

He goes very still, because he’s not sure what else to do, and grits his teeth against the urge to shudder when Wilson leans in to speak into his ear. “I’m gonna get you filthy anyway, so why waste time? If you’re good, I’ll even let you come.”

“Since when are you so bossy,” Frank grumbles, grinding his teeth when Wilson laughs straight into his ear.

“Ever since Nate told me how much you like bein’ bossed.”

The cuffs go on secure and heavy -- the weight of them is enough to convince Frank that they’re the real deal. He thinks about asking if Wilson actually has the key, and then decides that’s something for future him to worry about, as he’s shoved across the small space and pushed to sit on the couch. He lands heavily enough that the couch scoots roughly back across the hardwood and his hands dig into his back, pinned uncomfortably.

Still, maybe it’s the eagerness with which Wilson sets about everything he does, or maybe it’s the newness of being restrained, but Frank is as compliant as he can be in letting Wilson drag his jeans down his legs, tangling them against the heavy boots he’s still wearing. Wilson sighs, frustrated, and grumbles to himself. “Next time, make you get naked first. God, these boots don’t even have a zipper, what the fuck. Do you tie these _every time_?”

“Do you ever shut up,” Frank grumbles, which is low hanging fruit and deserves exactly the response it gets, which is none.

There’s a bit of a struggle and Frank has to fight the urge to kick Wilson in the face when he wrenches his ankle roughly to the side jerking his boot free. He does, in fact, continue doing his best to be complaint, torn between frustrated and amused by Wade’s lack of forethought and rampant eagerness.

Any trace of frustration leaves him when he’s left barefoot and pantless, his dick still half-hard despite all the fumbling, pushing against the front of his dark boxer briefs. There’s no room for it because Wade, still kneeling between his legs, leans in and nuzzles against the bulge, mouthing wetly at it, and suddenly, yeah, yeah, this all seems like a very good idea.

“Oh, Frank, I think he missed me,” Wade says, not really sultry, more like someone spotting a dog they hadn’t seen in a while, one they got on with. “I think he wants to play.”

“Why are you like this?” Frank asks, genuinely mystified, and then clenches his teeth against a noise as Wilson molds his tongue to the heat of his cock, licking sloppily through the cotton. It’s hot and wet and strange, a sort of muted good, and Frank wants more, wants his hands free so he can grab hold of Wade and make him get on with it.

It occurs to him suddenly that if Cable were here, he’d be able to hear that; he’d know, and he’d tell Wade, how eager for it Frank is. Or maybe he’d make Frank say it himself. The thought is both arousing and steadying; he has self control. He can exercise it, no matter how ungodly good Wilson’s mouth feels.

He lifts his hips and Wilson rolls his underwear down his legs, nailless fingers soft and careful for all the enthusiastic speed with which they move, and the second they’re gone -- Wilson throws them over the couch, vaguely in the direction of the bed -- his mouth is back, kissing open and sloppy along the shaft, nuzzling against his thigh and sliding his cheek against the swell of his cock as he noses at the juncture of Frank’s thigh.

It’s good but it’s not enough. Frank grits his teeth and tenses his toes against the floor, mastering the impulse to struggle, to snap, keeping himself as still as he can. Wilson looks up at him and grins, purring an approving sound. “You really _are_ a good little soldier, huh. Here I thought Nate was just trying to make me be good, you know, some good ol’ why-can’t-you-be-like bullshit, but… yup, no, you really just are _such_ a good _boy_.”

Frank scowls at that and takes advantage of the position to drive his knee into the side of Wilson’s head. Hard, but not too hard -- it was easy to hurt a man very badly, landing a blow from that angle against that part of the skull. And Wilson maybe couldn’t stay dead, but that didn’t mean Frank was interested in killing him temporarily.

Certainly not like this.

“I’m not a kid and I _definitely_ ain’t your dog, so quit that shit now.”

The bruise darkens and fades even as Wilson raises his head, brows raised, smile surprised and pleased. “So a nice studded collar is out of the question, huh?” he asks, and then fills his mouth with Frank’s semi-erect cock, eyes glinting playfully even as he sucks.

It’s so sudden and, whether Frank wants to admit it or not, combined with the very visceral mental image of Wade sitting in his lap and putting a heavy leather collar around his throat, like a mark of ownership -- he’s fully hard in a matter of seconds, Wilson working him deeper and deeper into his mouth, until his face is pressed against Frank’s pelvis and his throat is working around his cock. There’s no way that is comfortable for Wilson, certainly no way he can _breathe_ , but he holds it, and all Frank can do is flex his fists against the small of his back and take it.

Time draws out thin, meaningless. Wade hums a little, drumming his fingers on Frank’s thighs, distracting, and when he finally withdraws, sucking tight and wet along the length of him, Frank groans through clenched teeth.

“God, I shoulda brought a nice ring for you. Leave you sit for a minute and, how’s Nate put it -- make you _meditate on being good_ while I go freshen up.” Despite the roughness from his abused throat (already fading), Wilson does a fair impression of Cable. Frank’s a little dizzy, and that makes it harder to appreciate, as does the way Wilson’s strong, clever fingers have wrapped around his dick and begun jacking him slowly.

It’s not enough, not even close, but he still feels that weird hazy curl, the relief of giving himself up. It not as natural a process as it is with Cable -- Wade doesn’t make himself much of a trustworthy partner, not the way Cable does -- but it’s happening.

He gasps openly when Wilson lets him loose entirely, bouncing to his feet. He’s still completely dressed, but Frank can see his interest tenting the front of his trashy sweatpants. Frank watches as Wade toys with his waistband, not so much teasing as seeming legitimately hesitant, before he shoves them down and kicks them away. His awful Crocs go skittering across the floor as well, tangled in the worn fabric of the sweats, and then off comes the shirt as well.

Wilson is not a pretty man, not at surface value. The waxy scars and shifting sores serve to break up the lean lines of his body, making him look irregular and strange. Because of this, Wilson acts like he’s some kind of horror show, sometimes in a joking-to-hide-real-pain way and sometimes in a very sincere way.

Evidently he’s horny enough at this point to leave his self doubt behind, eager again now that he’s crossed the threshold of removing his clothes.

“C’mere,” Frank says, and god -- his voice is rougher than Wilson’s after a throat full of dick, a realization that makes him shiver. He hadn’t thought this would do much for him -- he’s never been much into bondage, certainly not on the receiving end. This was mostly for Wilson’s benefit, or so he’d started out thinking.

It seemed to be turning out much more a mutual thing than he’d expected.

“You are _super_ into this, huh, big guy,” Wade says happily, leaning in and stroking a finger up the length of Frank’s jutting cock, gasping in mock delight. “You’re still hard even after an eyeful of me in all my naked mole rat glory. And you said you’re not a good boy.”

Frank thinks he should snap something at that, but honestly, he badly wants more contact. His hands are trapped behind him and he doesn’t think he’d be able to grab hold of Wilson with his legs, strung out the way he feels. Wilson is flexible and nimble and he’s not handcuffed and half-desperate on the couch.

“I’m being good,” Frank says, perhaps a little grudgingly, but a little hopeful too. Hopeful that Wilson will give him more.

Instead Wilson stands back up straight, clicking his tongue and looking thoughtful. “That is _so close_ to what I wanna hear you say. If you figure out the rest I’ll give you a prize.”

It doesn’t take a genius to solve this particular puzzle, and Frank feels himself start to redden. It’s not exactly shame that fills him -- it’s not even an unpleasant emotion; it’s not humiliation or any kind of real anxiety. It’s more a squirrel-y sense of something akin to doubt -- what if he says what he wants and Wilson just keeps toying with him anyway. He didn’t worry about that with Cable, but Wilson is a different man.

“Hey,” Wilson says, and only when he cuts his gaze back from where he’s been staring into the middle distance does Frank realize he’d looked away. Wade looks both amused and a little concerned. “This going too hard?”

The consideration takes Frank by surprise, but he instinctively shakes his head, even as he’s processing his surprise. “I’m fine.”

Reaching toward him, Wilson curls his fingers in the air and then seems to change his mind, still refusing to touch. “Well then, what d’you need to say?”

Frank’s face is warm but his voice is steady when he says, after the barest pause, “I’m a good boy.”

Wilson’s smile is sunny, baring crooked teeth in an expression that has more charm than one would expect from a guy who compares his skin to rotting produce on a regular basis. “Yeah,” he says, “You are.”

He slides into Frank’s lap, and that’s _something_ , yes, certainly, something _good_ , all that oddly textured skin against his own -- he wishes suddenly the impulsive jackass had let him get his shirt off before cuffing him, because Wilson is warm and everywhere he touches feels suddenly electric. When their cocks press together, Frank exhales a sound much too close to a whine for his tastes, making him grit his teeth again.

“Good boys get treats, huh, Frank,” Wilson purrs, rotating his hips to drag his cock against Frank’s, the sensation too dry and too unfocused to be more than a tease.

“Watch your mouth,” Frank snaps, and then huffs a sound, not quite a gasp, when Wilson ducks his head and sucks a mark on his neck. He knows it’s going to be a mark because the little bastard sinks his teeth in and works his jaws as he sucks. “Hey!”

“Don’t snap at me,” Wade says, as indulgent as any good natured pet owner. He doesn’t sound bothered by Frank’s aggression, even after getting that agreeable ‘good boy’ out of him; he sounds amused. “Who gets treats, Frank?”

A pause, trying to reign his temper, and then, gruffly, “Good boys.”

Suddenly, Wilson has them both gripped in his hand, pushing them together and stroking in a loose, rough gesture that makes Frank’s hips snap up and his head tip back, groaning. “And what are _you_ , Frank?”

“Good boy,” Frank breathes, and he’s not _desperate_ , not yet, but he feels that sick lurch in his chest, that eager, hungry desire, and knows he’d rather be fed than starved. He’s panting a little as Wade continues, squeezing their dicks together and then stroking for a bit before returning to just holding them. “I’m a good boy, okay?”

“Man, I am _not_ a top, but I see the appeal with you,” Wade says pleasantly, twisting his wrist and watching Frank struggle to keep his breathing even. “Nate said you like him calling you ‘Lieutenant’, but I dunno, I think I like you just being my good boy.”

There’s something about that, both the reminder that Cable will have told Wilson all about what they’d done together, in great detail, he was sure, and the easy, possessive way Wilson says _‘my_ good boy’, that makes Frank’s stomach feel tight and his dick twitch. As needy and compliant as Wilson had been when Frank and Cable had fucked him that first time, Frank hadn’t expected this kind of attitude from him.

“I think you like it, too,” Wade says pointedly, and Frank closes his eyes and groans softly, because he’s right. He’s absolutely right, and he can’t fathom fighting it now.

This time when Wilson buries his face against Frank’s neck, Frank drops his head back and lets him kiss and nip at his throat. It makes his heart beat harder, baring his throat this way, but that’s part of it. Anxiety, but somehow pleasant.

He whines, actually _whines_ , when Wade releases his hold on their dicks. The sound seems to delight the merc, and he’s rewarded with light kiss. It makes him gasp, the warmth of Wilson’s thin, scarred lips against his own, and Wilson pulls quickly away, moving to perch himself over Frank’s straining cock.

“Nate said you don’t do kisses, but I remember you yankin’ me around last time. He likes to play Cable Knows Best but sometimes he’s a dumbass,” Wilson says happily, and when Frank moans, loud and low at the sensation of his cockhead sinking into Wade, the bastard claps a hand loosely over his mouth. “Nuh-uh, no noise complaints tonight. Your neighbor is home and she’s got two little kids with her. They don’t need to hear that… and we don’t need any interruptions, right?”

Frank is blushing deeply now, half his dick spearing into Wilson, panting against his hand. Wade must have slicked himself up beforehand, an idea that does more for Frank than he can readily process right now -- he has the mental image of Wilson fingering himself, putting all his flexibility to good use as he gets ready for Frank, and suddenly is glad for the hand over his mouth, smothering the desperate noise that crawls out of his throat. He manages to nod, sharply, just once, and Wade pulls his hand away and sinks the rest of the way down.

“Still think a nice collar would go real well with this look you’ve got going,” Wade says, sliding his hand from Frank’s shoulder to press his palm gently against Frank’s throat, curling his fingers around the curve of his neck. There’s no threat to it, it’s not a hold or attempt to choke, it’s more like a demonstration of how it might feel, something around his neck like that, a steady, unrelenting reminder.

Frank needs a moment to get his voice back. Like this, Wade is just sitting on him, engulfing his cocking in tight, slick heat. He’s not doing anything else. Finally he manages, hoarsely, one word, more a plea than a command. “Move.”

Eyes bright with delight, Wade leans back, circling his hips idly. “Want me to show you how Nate likes it? Teach you how to really blow his mind?”

Swallowing tightly, Frank manages to nod. It’s not just the implication that he should expect to repeat his performance for Cable, but also the implication that he could have done more, done better. The reminder that Wilson knows Cable that way too. That the three of them have this weird fuckbuddy system going on now.

Wade braces his palms on Frank’s shoulders for leverage, fingers curving into his back, and starts riding him, hard and fast. Frank watches his face, the way his eyes glaze and then roll back halfway, the way his mouth falls open as his head tips back. He’s pretty like that, scars or not; it’s the lines of his form; his curved neck, his solid, trim frame, his utter confidence as he chases pleasure.

“Nate likes hands on him. Like this. Not this,” he shifts his grip, sliding his arms around Frank’s shoulders to lock his hands behind Frank’s neck, the same kind of hand-to-wrist cuff Frank had employed while riding Cable. “He likes feeling like you can’t get enough, likes his scars touched. You know the mess where the TO hits skin?”

As if to demonstrate, Wade glides a fingertip in a jagged path down the side of Frank’s neck, following the path where metal bit into Cable’s neck. Frank nods helplessly, thighs tense with the restraint to keep from trying to buck up into Wilson.

“Use your mouth on it. Drives him fucking batshit.” Wilson curls over him, then, grinding down and swiveling his hips as he licks wetly up the same path his finger had taken. Frank moans, he can’t help it, his head dropping against the back of the couch. It’s not just how good it feels, it’s the weird voyeuristic nature of Wade teaching him what he knows from intimate experience works on the guy they’re both fucking.

When Wade speaks again, his voice is private and soft, spoken right against Frank’s ear. “You’re being so good for me Frank. So good, and what do good boys get, huh?”

“Treats,” Frank pants back, his voice hardly sounding like his own. Wade rewards his response with a nips to his earlobe and a sudden tightening around him, so tight it borders on discomfort.

“Good boy. You do one more thing for li'l old me, and I’ll let you come. Can you do me one more good boy thing?”

At this point, Frank can’t imagine any response but compliance. He has no idea what else Wilson could want from him, but he’ll do anything asked to the best of his ability.

Because he’s being good.

Wade braces his hands on Frank’s shoulders again, arching his back and pulling almost entirely off him. Frank can’t help but notice the way his thighs tremble, the hardness of his dripping cock pressing against his belly. “I want you to move with me. Fuck me, Frank, make me come. Then you can come.”

It’s hard, with his hands trapped behind him. He wants to grab Wade by the hips and slam him back down, wants how hold on, clutch against that strange, scar-rough skin, and fuck him proper. Flip them over and fuck Wilson into the couch.

He can’t do any of that, and he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t be considered ‘good’ behaviour even if he could, but he _can_ brace his feet against the hardwood, tense his thighs, and rock up as Wilson sinks down on him again. That gets him a rough, happy moan, so he does it again, working with the rhythm Wade establishes. He has no control, he can only follow, and that’s fine. He is a vessel for Wade’s pleasure, and it feels good.

One hand slips from his shoulder and Frank watches Wade wrap it around his cock, tight, squeezing himself hard before starting to tug. He likes rough handling, Frank remembers that. In this, Frank can’t grab him or slap him around, he can’t even get himself to say any of the things that come to mind. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, listening to the sounds of them fucking, of Wade’s hitched breathing and his hand furiously working his cock and the wet slap each time they collide. He’s close, close now, but he’s waiting.

Wade gets to come first. He holds on to that thought, the only thought; he can’t come until he makes Wade come. When he makes Wade come, he’ll be allowed.

His hands are clenched into fists behind him, pinned between his back and the couch, the cuffs digging into the skin of his wrists. His back hurts a little from the angle and from trying to work his hips when he’s trapped under Wilson’s weight. And still, it takes every ounce of self control to keep from coming the second Wade’s free hand slides from his shoulder to his throat. His eyes flash open, but there is, again, no threat. It’s not a choking hold, there’s no pressure; it’s just the weight, a hot presence around the front of his neck, a band of heat.

A collar.

Wade flexes his fingers just a little, looking down at Frank with eyes that are half lidded. He’s red faced and sweating, all scars and lesions and obvious, plain desire. Nothing about him is alluring or sexy, not in the simple, easy way Cable was, and yet there’s something to the look of him, all that energy and hunger narrowed down to focus on Frank, his parted lips shiny with spit and his eyes narrow and hazy with pleasure. It’s a good look, and Frank digs his nails into the palms of his hands and Wade grinds down against him, arches his back, and comes.

The sensation of his body clenching around Frank presents a tipping point. He’s going to come whether he wants to or not -- and he does want, he _does_ , but he wants _permission_ , he wants to be good, and he’s been trying so _hard._  All he can do is clench his teeth and try to hold still, feeling Wade’s jizz splash across his chest, wishing his shirt wasn’t in the way, that he was catching it on his skin.

“Come on, big guy,” Wade pants out, his hand still resting just so, braced around his throat. “You did super good, so come on. Fill me up.”

Having already come, it can’t be comfortable for Wade to keep moving, and admittedly, it’s far less deliberate, more a shallow rocking than a bounce now, but he _does_ continue, working Frank in smooth, grinding motions. It only takes a few of those undulations before Frank tips over as well, like the release of a tightly held breath. He rocks up as Wade sinks down, and they both groan with it.

The hand around his throat slides away. Frank is breathing in hard, shaky gasps, trembling slightly. He feels a little dazed, and it’s difficult to focus on anything suddenly; he feels cold and only then realizes Wilson has climbed off his lap. He closes his eyes, tries to steady his breathing, and then feels something push at his shoulders. He sits forward, because that’s what the touch wants; Wilson opens the cuffs and frees his arms. A blanket is draped around him, weirdly thoughtful, and then his hands, which he’s dropped between his thighs, hissing at the pins-and-needles sensation, are lifted, his wrists gently massaged.

When he opens his eyes, Wilson is sitting between his feet, rubbing his left wrist in both his hands, looking pleased. This is the longest, Frank thinks, he’s ever seen Wilson quiet for.

“Nate doesn’t usually do this part for you, huh?”

“Never tied me up before,” Frank grunts, and privately is pleased -- his voice sounds more like his own again.

“He’s always a nut for aftercare with me, but I bet he just tosses you a beer and lets you put yourself away wet,” Wilson says, and he sounds amused about it. “Nathan knows best, uh huh, yeah.”

“Don’t need it,” Frank says, but he doesn’t try to pull out of Wilson’s hold. Wilson just grins and keeps rubbing the stiffness out of Frank’s wrist.


End file.
